Unreliable
by roane
Summary: Sherlock is still alive and has come back, and while John's happy, he wonders if he can trust Sherlock to stay. (Post-Reichenbach, dark!John)


**AN:** Please note that I have chosen NOT to warn on this fic, aside from dark!John. If you are concerned, please PM me, but I felt they were too spoilery to include here. There is no graphic violence or sex, but there may be some disturbing themes.

Thanks as always to thisprettywren, and also mydwynter and belovedmuerto for feedback on this fic.

* * *

When John comes home that first night and finds Sherlock standing in his sitting room, he thinks he's finally gone mad. When Sherlock, scruffy and bedraggled, falls into his arms and begs for forgiveness, John knows he must have gone mad. And since he's already mad, he doesn't argue or question when Sherlock kisses him. As delusions go, it's a good one. Remarkably real, with the taste of coffee and cigarettes in his mouth from Sherlock's tongue, the undeniable heat of another body pressed against his-the first in far too long. John is half-naked on his narrow bed, with Sherlock raining kisses and bites over his torso, before it occurs to him that this is actually happening.

And then it's too late to deny that it's what he'd wanted all along.

Forty years of assumptions about his own sexuality lie tangled on his bedroom floor with his shirt and Sherlock's trousers. The two of them cling together like shipwreck victims hoping for rescue, gasping in deep breaths before going under again, twice, then the third and final time, drowning in each other.

After, Sherlock tries to give him explanations. "I did it for you, to keep you safe. Moriarty's men were going to kill you unless they thought I was dead."

John tightens his arms around Sherlock, trying to imagine what he would have done if their roles had been reversed. He would have died for Sherlock, no doubt. He isn't clever enough to have faked his own death, and to have kept that secret for three years. "What's to stop them from doing it now?" he asks.

Sherlock smiles his familiar secretive Sherlock smile. "I just need a good night's sleep, then we can hunt them down, together. I tried it alone, but it didn't work."

John can't help but smile back at him. "You should know by now it never does." He pauses, smile wilting into a frown. "You won't leave again, will you?"

"Not as long as I have breath," Sherlock says, pulling him closer. "I told you ages ago that I'd be lost without my blogger-and that turned out to be truer than I expected."

_I wish I could believe you_, John thinks, but lets Sherlock hold him close.

* * *

John's eyes fly open the moment he wakes. He turns over, half-expecting to find Sherlock gone in the night. But no, Sherlock's body is still curled against his, warm and heavy with sleep. John takes a deep breath and tries to relax. If Sherlock says he won't leave again, John will have to try and trust him. And he does-he will always trust Sherlock, but... his hindbrain, the part of him that had run howling when he thought he saw Sherlock's body hit the pavement, will take some extra convincing.

He slips from underneath Sherlock's arm carefully and goes to make tea for the two of them. It is ridiculous, but he can't help himself. While he waits for the kettle to boil, John steps back over to his bedroom doorway to watch Sherlock sleep. Seeing him the morning light is a revelation. How much had he been through? He is much too thin, and looks as if he hadn't slept in weeks before last night. Some trick of light and perspective makes him seem even smaller as he lies curled up against John's pillow, as if his time away from London had diminished him somehow.

The kettle clicks and John goes to fetch the tea. He sits one mug on Sherlock's side of the bed, He then walks around and sits on his own side. He could go have his tea in the kitchen, of course, but... he wants to be right here, by Sherlock's side when he wakes up. His weight shifting on the mattress must have been enough: Sherlock rolls onto his back and yawns, smiling when he sees John. "Are you hovering over me?" he teases.

"Can't bear to let you out of my sight," John says, his tone light. He means it as a joke. It's true nonetheless.

"John." Sherlock's voice has that low, serious tone he reserves for things that he considers both obvious and important. "I meant what I said last night."

"I know you did." John smiles and pats Sherlock's hand. "Drink your tea. You've a lot of catching up to do, I'd imagine."

After a pair of showers (oh it was tempting to think about sharing one, but there are more important matters to attend to for now), they settle in the sitting room, John's laptop in Sherlock's lap, while John reads the papers, just as it had been in 221B.

"I see the city's criminals are as busy as ever," Sherlock says, scrolling down a page. "The usual unsolved murders, a kidnapping, a string of robberies. Definitely an uptick in robberies. I'd heard that times were getting harder here, but really, given a choice between robbing a hair salon and a funeral parlour, I do think I'd stick to the local takeaway for some quick cash."

John laughs. "Maybe someone was in desperate need of shampoo?"

"Or a fresh corpse? Perhaps." Sherlock lowers the laptop lid and puts the computer aside. "Well, I think it's time we were off. The first place to start is with an old friend of Moriarty's. I imagine he's been keeping an eye out for me for quite some time, if he's even half as devoted a friend as you are to me."

John's heart races. Sherlock means to leave the flat. He means to go outside. He can't, not yet. It's too soon, much too soon. "Why don't we wait?" he says. "It's early. Or if you need me to, I can go question him while you stay here. Wouldn't that be safer?"

"John," Sherlock is reproachful. "You can't expect me to stay cooped up forever."

"No, not forever," John says, smiling. "But just for now? For me?"

"For now," Sherlock agrees. "Come here. I can at least send you on a little bit of reconnaissance..."

* * *

John returns a few hours later with the name and address of one Sebastian Moran-the man he now knows has been assigned to kill him should Sherlock ever return. He unlocks the door to his flat and carefully re-locks it behind him. Then he walks over to his bedroom door and unlocks that, revealing where he'd left Sherlock.

It isn't that John doesn't trust him. He does. It's just that hindbrain fear he can't quite shake. It made him feel much better to leave the house knowing that Sherlock was safely bound hand and foot to his bed, behind two locked doors, away from his mobile or a computer. And Sherlock had understood. Of course he had been a bit hurt, but he seemed to accept it as his penance for the greater hurt he had done to John.

He unfastens the gag around Sherlock's beautiful mouth, and can't resist stealing a kiss. "I found him," John says, "Just where you said he was."

Sherlock looks very pleased with himself, and John smiles back. "And he didn't see you?" Sherlock says, wriggling a little against his bonds.

"I don't think so," says John. "I was very careful. I'm leaving the questioning to you."

"Excellent as always, John," Sherlock says. "Now that you're here, you can let me up and we'll figure out the rest of our plan."

"No," John says. He reaches out and smooths down Sherlock's hair. "Not just yet."

Sherlock laughs; he laughs as if John is being ridiculous, and he _isn't_. "Even if I were inclined to leave-which I am not-I'd hardly do it while you were here, would I?"

"You could," John says. "You always leave again. You come back and you come back, and then as soon as I turn away, you leave." Why doesn't Sherlock understand? "Three times, Sherlock!"

"What?" Sherlock looks uncertain. Is he pretending, or has he actually forgotten? "John, I don't-"

"_Three times_!" John should lower his voice, but he can't. He clenches his fists in frustration. It always comes to this. He stands up, but can't bring himself to turn his back on Sherlock, as if he'll vanish like mist if John does. "You can't keep doing this to me, Sherlock. You come back, and you start sending me on errands for you, and within a few days, you're gone."

Sherlock is beginning to look a little frightened, and John finds that irritating and also a little satisfying. "I would never-"

Someone starts pounding on John's door. He should have been quieter; now the neighbors must have complained.

"John? John, can I come in?" Greg's voice. What is he doing here?

"Yeah, be right there," John says. He looks at Sherlock and puts a finger to his lips. Greg would get the wrong idea, finding Sherlock tied to John's bed like this. John can just imagine the smirk.

He opens the door, and Greg is standing there with two constables to either side of him. "What's this about then?" John asks.

"Folks are worried about you, John," Greg says. "I just wanted to come see how you were. Can we come in?"

"It's... not a good time," John says, trying to avoid looking back to his bedroom. "I can meet you later, down at the pub?"

"John." Now there's an oddness to Greg's voice. "Something's happened, and you need to let us in."

"Is everything all right?" John gives in and swings the door all the way open. The constables brush past him and start searching the tiny flat. One of them opens John's bedroom door before he can say anything.

"Oh god. Oh Jesus," says the constable, a hand pressed to her mouth.

John feels the blood rushing to his cheeks. "I should explain that... Greg, it's Sherlock. He wasn't dead. He came back!"

The look Greg gives him makes him angry. It's pity John sees, and sadness.

"Look mate, I know how it sounds, but go and see for yourself!" The constable is still standing in the doorway, the color drained from her face. Honestly, it's as if she's never seen a bound man before. Greg nods at her, and goes to the bedroom door.

He doesn't say anything to Sherlock, and-even odder-Sherlock doesn't say anything to him. "John, can you come over here?"

Here it comes. Greg's going to give them both shit for being into bondage and they're going to have to explain that it's not like that at all.

"Where is Sherlock?" Greg says, his voice tight.

Oh god. Oh no. Is he gone already? How did he get away so quickly, without John seeing? "He was right there on the be-" John gets to the doorway and looks.

_It's not Sherlock on the bed._ He's wearing Sherlock's coat, and Sherlock's scarf, but he's much too short to be Sherlock.

"Jesus Christ, Greg. He was just here, I don't know what he's up to, but _Sherlock was just here_. It's a trick, it's a magic trick, just like when he fell."

Greg lowers his head for a long moment and sighs. "John Watson, you are under arrest for manslaughter in the death of Sebastian Moran, unlawful interference with a corpse, and obstructing a coroner. You-"

"What?" John is still trying to process what Greg is saying as Greg is handcuffing his hands behind his back. "He's still here somewhere, he's hiding. Sherlock!"

"-do not have to say anything but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence, do you understand?"

"No, no I don't understand," says John. "Sherlock, _say_ something!"

Sherlock doesn't say anything as Greg leads him away.

* * *

John laughs and nudges Sherlock with his foot. "That was a rotten thing you did, back there, hiding a corpse in my bed." He's sitting across the foot of his bed-well, _their_ bed now, he supposes-with his back propped against the wall. Sherlock is stretched out, his hands behind his head and his feet under John's knees. He looks supremely pleased with himself.

"Consider it revenge for tying me up," Sherlock says. "You should have seen the look on your face."

"One of these days you're going to have to tell me how you did it."

"No I'm not," Sherlock says.

"You're a bastard. You know that, don't you?" John smiles as he says it, taking some of the edge from his words. He's not afraid anymore. He knows that Sherlock isn't going to leave him again.

"I am, but you love me anyway."

John sighs and shakes his head. "God knows why, but I do." He reaches over and squeezes Sherlock's hand, and they smile fondly at one another.

* * *

"How many were there?"

"Three, that we know of," Mycroft says, closing a file folder.

"My god. I had no idea-"

"You couldn't have known."

"I _should_ have. Of all people. I was only trying to keep him safe."

"He's safe now." Mycroft's voice is dry and grim.

Sherlock looks through the one-way glass into John's tiny room. "I should have come back sooner," he says. John is indifferent to his surroundings now, sitting on the end of his hospital bed engaged in an animated conversation with a Sherlock only he can see.


End file.
